


fragmentation

by nagginggargoyle



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: Episode: s02e16 Nightmare Hospital, F/F, Forced Fusion, Gem Clusters, Gem Shards, Other, horrible homeworld politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:28:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagginggargoyle/pseuds/nagginggargoyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're made up of many pieces that don't quite add up to a whole, but you are not alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fragmentation

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have an excuse for this… I like body horror and monster women and girlfriends. Please enjoy this hideous gem cluster romance.
> 
> **Warning** for body horror, unreality, dissociation.

You have no name. Because – there's too much of you. Or – because nobody cared to do the naming. 

You don't know much. Where are you from? Where are you now? What should you do? You don't know.

You know you are unhappy. All of you is unhappy. This is because it takes very different things to make you happy, and even if you have some, even if you have all of them, it wouldn't work. Some of the things are contradictory. Some of the things are impossible for you the way you are. There are so many parts of you, and none of them whole.

You want to stay together. You're scared of being alone. You want to break apart. You dream of being free.

But you can't exist separately of yourself. You don't know much, but you know this. They made you this way on purpose.

That purpose – you aren't sure what it is. You think you aren't fulfilling it at all. But that's okay. You mostly don't want to. You think in different ways, to varying degrees, all of you is a little angry.

You feel the other one next you. The other one like you. You don't have eyes to see her, don't have mouths to speak. You have multiple lungs inside you, though, vocal cords scattered around, a cavernous voice box like a nest of broken branches. You make a noise, letting it sift through your pores, wave your limbs around; you have plenty of those. 

You hear her breathe. You have many very good ears.

She brushes against you, the light spongy substance of her bumping you in a way you know is friendly. She makes a low whirring sound; it's both pleasant and unnerving to you. To different parts of you, maybe. You can't always make up your mind.

You wonder if she, too, has no mouth. Has a faulty approximation of one, maybe. You want to tell her you like the presence of her mass next to you, like the way she feels almost universally comforting to you. She makes you prickle. She validates your existence. But you're not sure if she has any ears.

You tap some part of her with your largest fingers, playing at a language you're not sure even you understand. But she lumbers closer, and you hear her lumbering, heavy and purposeful and strictly for your benefit. You will never be able to tell her about the wonderful, excruciating uncertainty of your perception of her, and other things, the way you make decisions so slowly and all at once, murky in your own opinions; you're not that articulate. But you can run your palm carefully along the ridges of her form, find a few of her hands and hold them, and guide her to one of the rooms with the big fluffy horizontal surfaces in them, sit with her in any way you can manages to sit, and bounce together for a little while.

She laughs; it sounds like things grinding together that shouldn't, but it's abrupt and forceful so you know it's sincere. You can't laugh that way, so you waggle your legs back and forth instead.

She grabs one of the hands you used to hold hers, spreads your fingers out, bends them all the ways they'll go. You rumble happily, and she presses down on your palm. You trace the seams in her skin where pieces of her were improperly fused together. This isn't the way she should be, but – because you're selfish, and uncertain, and lonely, you're glad she is this way.

She squeezes your hand, and you think, maybe she's glad you're this way, too.


End file.
